


salt

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (Italy)
Genre: (also pretty brief), (also some ableist language in here), (this is very brief and is more like suicidal ideation just fyi), Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Universe, Character Study, M/M, Missing Scene, POV Niccolò Fares, Self-Medication, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-05 23:48:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18376592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Nico’s thoughts leading up to, during, and slightly after the hiatus.





	salt

**Author's Note:**

> i can thank bee for being my cheerleader and expert plot bunny planter
> 
> and i can thank bad suns for the title, [the song inspo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JELZH8zCe_c), and my overall general will to live
> 
> please read the tags 💛

_“I don’t know. I think so.”_

The words are spoken softly — with a smile, even. But they ring in Nico’s ears with their sharp edges, the tone rather than the volume slicing his ability to process them. 

At first maybe he thinks Marti is just playing hard to get, trying not to cave so fast when there’s still mud on his face from Nico dragging him through it. Because he knows he has — knows that four days left on read would drive him over the edge of anxiety into a pit of hopeless abandonment after those two amazing nights they shared together. 

Even after the string, the notes. He didn’t _want_ Marti to feel abandoned, because on the flip side he knows better than anyone how much that hurts.

But playing hard to get is not Marti. (Granted, there’s still a lot to learn about him, but the Marti Nico saw Thursday morning — chasing him off the bed, a gentle touch on his pained face — that Marti was already got. And Nico wants to learn all he can.)

He knows the real reason. The real reason Marti says he doesn’t know. 

It’s him. Him and his back and forth and his games and his enigmatic messages and his on and off girlfriend.

Marti is only protecting himself from the rollercoaster of their relationship (if you could even call it that) that’s barely spun a week. And if this is what Nico puts him through in just a week, of course Marti is guarded, of course he is cautious. Whatever they have is off to a rocky start and it makes Nico feel unbearably guilty. 

So guilty that he looks for an excuse. Any excuse to as why Marti “doesn’t know” if he wants to be with Nico. Any excuse besides him. 

_“What would your parents say about us?”_

Nico is grasping at straws for where the hesitation lies. 

But that just opens a new can of worms. Worms that are cold and alive and slimy; that feel creepy permeating Nico’s skin, slithering through his hollow bones. Marti’s words make him feel gross:

_“If someone’s not right in the head, then you can’t do anything about it. The only thing you can do is stay with them as little as possible. Otherwise you’ll end up just like them.”_

It’s hard to tell Marti that’s not true when all he’s ever made to feel like is a burden. Hard to spin it around because when he does, he reshapes the thought from _“you won’t end up like me”_ to _“you’ll end up hating me.”_

And the thought of Marti hating him is possibly the most gut-wrenching thought Nico’s ever had in his life.

Despite the hurtful words, the uncertainty, Marti kisses him. He kisses him with a smile Nico feels pressed against his lips and an underlying current of inevitability that whispers _it’ll all work out._

He feels fine. Relieved. It’s not the first time Nico has simply tried to will away his brain and the way it seemingly snaps. He can hold on to this mindset if he tries really, _really_ hard. 

(How he still believes this, how he still hopes this could be, he has no idea.) 

But there’s a looming horizon and a sliver of orange light. Nico can’t quite tell if it’s a sunrise or a sunset.

 

• • •

 

He’s such a joke. With no self control or worth. _I don’t know_ and _otherwise you’ll end up just like them_ loop in his head with a voice so distorted it can’t be Marti’s. 

But it is. 

Nico wants to die. Not in a cryptic, apathetic kind of way, either. In an _I wish my neurons would stop firing, I wish my heart would stop beating, I wish my lungs would stop taking in air_ kind of way. Every time this happens on a sunny afternoon, he can’t believe this frame of time, this fraction of space, and this train of thought can all coexist. But they do.

And just like Marti has to protect himself, Nico has to protect himself, too. 

(But above that, he has to protect Marti from himself.)

> _i'm with a friend taking pictures in an incredible place...later if you have nothing to do we could hang out if you want_

Nico cries. Not the violent, ugly kind of crying. But the kind that blurs his vision, that doesn’t last for long because he’s already so tired, so spent. So empty anything that could possibly pour out of him are dregs at best.

Because yes. That’s all, in an ideal word, he wants — to hear about Marti’s friend, to have Marti show him the pictures on his phone; to just learn about him, know him, be with him. 

But not like this, with tear streaks and lashing thoughts barely constrained by a mouth he knows will spout things he doesn’t mean. Not like this, with a body glued to sheets covered in dirty skin and hair and clothes. Not like this, because Marti thinks he will end up like him. Not like this, because even worse than that, Marti will hate him.

> _i don’t know about meeting up later.. maybe things are going too fast... I know it's my fault but I need some time. i'm sorry_

The first sentence is an excuse for his current state. The second is an excuse for his fear of being abandoned for said state.

The third sentence is, no matter how genuine it starts, still a lie.

The only truth he can tell Marti lies in an _I’m sorry._ And that, Nico knows, is not nearly enough.

The worst part of it is how badly he needs a response he’s very sure he will not get. What the hell is Marti even supposed to say? Why is he supposed to put up with Nico? Who’s — if Marti feels anything like he does — already in neck deep with barely any breathing room. The water about to swallow his head until he is smothered by the cool liquid of love. Who’s already backpedaled that so far he’s sure Marti “doesn’t know” if he wants to be with Nico _because_ of Nico. Who’s already been so push and pull, why on earth should Marti spend one more second of attention on him? Even if it’s to tell him to fuck off. 

How pathetic is it that Nico is desperate to feel his phone buzz and see that exact message from Marti on his screen? It would be better than the nothing he knows to follow. A backwards kind of reassurance.

If only Marti knew how to read Nico’s impossible messages.

If only Nico halfway knew what they even meant.

If only he himself could decide if this was truly the end or a desperate plea for help. 

His confusing message is met with — (if only he knew) — confused silence.

 

• • •

 

On his hands and knees, Nico crawls back to Maddalena. Hating himself for seeking comfort, for feeling relieved that comfort welcomed him back with open arms like it always seems to do. 

Self loathing and amenity: it’s a strange combination. But the two opposing forces don’t remedy any equilibrium. They fight.

There’s a moment in her presence where Nico can breathe again, where he thinks _this is all going to be okay._ Where his brain convinces him that being alone — and even more than that, that just the mere _possibility_ of being alone — is far far worse than comfort so stable it will strangle him.

The instant gratification of Maddalena’s unquestioning presence is quick to feed his hungry psyche — lifts him up quickly.

But he feels sorry for her, having to put up with him.

At least he’s not burdening Marti.

 

• • •

 

_“Are you going to Covitti’s birthday party tonight?”_

It’s his friend — his only friend at the moment. And “friend” is a rather loose word here; Nico sits next to him in class, chats with him during breaks. Their conversations revolve mainly around assignments and stay light and airy. He’s a little weird like Nico — has the same sense of humor. They get along well.

_“I wasn’t invited.”_

_“You didn’t get the facebook event? The whole class was invited.”_

Nico smiles. _“Don’t have facebook.”_

His friend punches his shoulder. _“Well you’re coming, and we’re pregaming at my place. Bring your girlfriend, yeah?”_

It’s a good idea in forethought. Nico is no stranger to distracting himself with impulsive tendencies. He tells Maddi to meet him later than intended so he can smoke, so he can drink. So he can get his head foggy and preoccupied with thoughts that taper off before she tells him he can’t. 

And when they get there he smiles. That big one everyone loves and that he got really good at hiding behind. He chats, he laughs, he dances. He drinks — he hides the fact that he does. It takes all of his energy.

At some point Maddalena gets up. Nico sees her go talk to Emma, who he is avoiding like the plague.

But in hindsight and in her absence — with the music deafening and the crowd dense — the comfort that told him being with her, that told him going back to the routine of a relatively safe life was for the best, that told him this was better than being alone: it lied.

Because he still feels alone. In fact, he’s in the middle of a situation designed to make him feel _the most_ alone.

_(“I don’t know, maybe you’re at a party and there are fifty people around, and you’re just there, alone with your brain, you freak out and... sometimes it’s like you can’t breathe.”)_

He feels the ghost of a soothing finger drag across his cheek.

Even bad things remind him of good things when it comes to Marti.

Things so good there’s a moment of panic within him, because this same boy who was nothing but understanding _can’t_ be the same boy who thinks spending time with Nico will make him like Nico. He can’t, and Nico’s bailed on a good thing because of chances, possibilities, fractions. Because of just the way he is; he hates how impossible he feels.

But he can’t go back and flip flop again. Reach out to Marti and change his mind again. _Again._

The best thing Nico could ever do for Marti at this point is leave him alone.

He wonders if he would have the strength to do that if he saw him, and becomes worried at the very real possibility he might have to when Nico sees his friends filter in at some point — the ones who were sitting with Marti in the gym. The handsome curly-haired one, the short one. He recognizes Eva from the radio, too, who Marti mentioned he knew.

Nico wonders if they know who _he_ is. 

Probably not, and that thought crushes him not in self-pity but in shame. Yet another thing he has ruined for Marti, because Nico knows how fragile this road of self-discovery is.

A careful and anxious eye stays watchful for him after that, but Nico never sees him.

It’s for the best.

 

• • •

 

The following week goes a bit like this:

Monday: Nico doesn’t go to school. A mixture of self-restraint and avoidance; he can’t face Marti.

Tuesday: Nico still doesn’t go to school. He composes a text to Marti that he never sends, how typical. After reading it over it doesn’t make sense anyway. He talks about viruses and antidotes and it’s all too incomprehensible. 

The opposite forces of wanting to leave Marti alone to protect them both and to keep throwing hooks with no bait to see what can still be salvaged between them are equally as strong and, to Nico, equally as rational.

This is where the back and forth comes from. He always ends up changing his mind, doing both over a span of time. His decision making process is like a stick of dynamite with a lit wick on both ends.

Wednesday: Back to school. He gets weird looks from people he doesn’t know. Some guy snickers at him in the hallway. He contemplates skipping the radio meeting because: Marti. But decides to go for that exact same reason.

Only Marti isn’t there.

He dips out halfway through to go sit on the terrace — maybe not the best idea, his memories are already delicate and folding in on the edges. Maybe the universe tries to tell him this, too, because the bars to the gate on the rooftop are fixed and Nico can no longer slip between them. As if it’s better that memory stays locked away with it. 

But it only takes a few minutes of weaving through the back hallways of the upper floor to figure out another way.

Thursday: The snickering was not for nothing. People don’t know him that well, so his name isn’t closely associated with his face. But he hears Marti’s again and again, paired with his own. Torture to hear it together like this.

He lingers in hallways, outside of classrooms. Tempted to ask his curly-haired friend what is going on, who must have heard the whispers too.

Marti still isn’t here.

Friday: Nico stays home.

 

• • •

 

There is a saying that time heals all wounds.

And while glimpses of Marti through the halls on Monday and Tuesday brought him great relief, that relief sure didn’t mend anything. It’s been a day over two weeks since the last time Nico’s talked to Marti, and all time has done for him is take that wound and pick it open.

He’s starting to question his own logic, which makes less and less sense the more he thinks about it.

Above all, he _misses_ Marti.

His body hurts with it, like he fell so hard and fast and yet the world was not kind enough to let him land on something soft. No, he smashed into concrete, into stone. His bones broke with it.

Two mornings waking up to freckled skin and curly hair and soft snores were enough to make Nico miss just that forever. On top of the kindness, the cuteness, the care. Marti is gentle yet firey, affectionate but playful, wise and distracting.

As if he deserved any of that. Maybe Nico should just live with the fact he was lucky to ever know him at all.

This thought and two feet carry him on autopilot up the steps of the radio room with one intention only: to find him.

He’s not even sure if he’s lending an olive branch, if he expects them to be friends.

No. That’s stupid. The mere idea of being next to Marti and not _being_ with Marti hurts worse than the idea of Marti hating him.

Which is probably why he has no self-restraint, why he invites Marti in his own vague way back up to the terrace — god, why can he never just say how he _feels?_ What he _wants?_

He even has the audacity to ask Marti how he is. What a stupid question, as if it’s not written all over his face. Unable to hide behind a smile like Nico.

His insides crack as soon as Marti turns around, flat out crumble when his weak _“I’m fine. And you?”_ breaks the silence of two weeks and a day since Nico’s last heard his voice.

He did this. He did this to Marti, and it snowballed so fast Nico knows he deserves the whiplash of just how bad it actually is — of confronting the pain, the rumors, the remorse in the flesh. Marti opened up his real true self for a fraction of time and all Nico did was tuck inside, rob him, and leave a shell. 

He never intended to. But that’s what happened.

No wonder Marti needs to leave — it doesn’t surprise him — but his worst fear manifests in less than a minute: rejection. He watches Marti walk away from him, each step tugging his heart further and further into his stomach; dissolving in the hungry, empty acid.

Marti hurts. He hurts like Nico hurts. Why do they do this to themselves?

 

• • •

 

_I’m looking for the virus. You’re taking horseback riding lessons._

This roughly translates to: _I’m working on it. You just keep holding on._

It’s all Nico knows how to offer — these secret clues he can only pray Marti understands. And if not, maybe the giraffe with the two of them can at least make him smile.

Because he is working on it. In small pieces. Maybe he doesn’t deserve Martino, maybe it’s selfish of him to rehash this all over again. Back and forth again. _Again._

He knows he’s putting Marti through it. Knows this isn’t easy, circumstances included. But there is something in him — in Marti — that draws them together. Strings of understanding and patience and comfort have been tied so tight in this short time Nico will never be able to unknot them. Marti will always have a rope on his heart. And even if, somehow, with time or circumstance those knots fray and whether and fall, they’ve dug so deep into the tissue Nico knows there will always be a permanent indentation.

Bottom line: it’s a promise. And Nico doesn’t make those often. But god if anyone ever deserved a promise, it’s Marti.

Contrastingly, if there was ever anyone who deserved a promise made by Nico, it wouldn’t be Marti.

And it still hurts when he draws the two of them on that giraffe, again and again, page by page. But it also feels like hope. A sour hope, maybe: that if at the end of this thing they will only exist together in this tiny drawing come to life, then so be it. At least they are together.

With each stroke of his pen comes a memory — the terrace the carbonara the trash cans the swimming pool his ukulele and the last men on earth — each nothing more than a coarse grain of salt scoured mercilessly into the open wound all this time apart created.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
